


A bit of a mess to clean up

by iriswallpaper



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Declarations Of Love, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2014-12-16
Packaged: 2018-03-01 18:24:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2783135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iriswallpaper/pseuds/iriswallpaper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has such a horrible nightmare that it scares a declaration of love for John from him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A bit of a mess to clean up

Vomiting from fear, loss, grief. Sherlock had always considered that a silly literary ploy used by authors who were too lazy or unimaginative to think up a valid twist to move a plot forward. It worked well to bring drama to plot points, but really. What a cheap device! People don’t actually vomit from strong emotions. Considered it silly, that is – until he actually did.

 

John was away for a night checking leads in a case in Dublin. Sherlock missed the warmth of his presence in the flat. Sure, John had stayed out overnight before. Usually the fourth date with any given girlfriend could be counted on for a guaranteed sleepover. If no sleepover by date four, then that ended the romance. Spending a night alone at Baker Street wasn't usually even worth noticing - but this was different. John wasn't even in the country. Sherlock could physically feel the lack of his reassuring presence. He felt cold, empty.

 

The anxious man was sure he’d not sleep that night. He hadn't bothered to dress that day so there was no need to change into nightclothes. John’s faded gray t-shirt (that Sherlock had secreted out of the laundry basket after John left) and baggy blue pajamas would do for another night. It comforted him that the shirt still smelled faintly of John. He practiced scales on his violin, opened the window and had a cigarette (John wouldn't be able to tell if he blew it out the window), then flopped onto the sofa for a little light cleaning in his Mind Palace to pass the time. 

 

At three in the morning Sherlock surfaced, sweating and panting, from the worst nightmare he’d ever experienced. He sprang from the sofa then doubled over and vomited from terror. He stumbled into the kitchen and turned the tap on full blast, gulping icy water directly from the faucet, spitting it back into the sink violently. His stomach continued to heave as images from his dream played out behind his closed eyelids. He grabbed the edge of the counter with white, shaking fingers, gasping for breath. 

 

At long last the dry heaving stopped. He slid down the cabinet to the floor, long legs stretched in front of him, head held in his long fingers, gasping, gasping like he was suffocating.

 

John. Something bad happened to John. He knew it in the depth of his soul. He leapt from the floor, diving for his mobile. He had to talk to John _right now_. His panicked, uncoordinated flailing knocked the phone from the coffee table and sent it skidding under the sofa.

 

Sherlock rolled over the table to the floor, his chest pressed in the tight space between coffee table and sofa. He snaked his long arm under sofa to sort blindly through random papers, empty cigarette packs, dust bunnies, unknown sticky and squishy things. _Finally_ \- there it was! 

 

He drew out the phone and shakily punched John’s speed dial. One ring, two, three – oh fucking hell, this nightmare would never end! Then, finally, a reassuring sleepy “Mmmm? Sherlock?” 

 

Sherlock surprised himself by bursting into tears. He felt like he could vomit all over again from relief at hearing John safe. He tried hard to get a hold on himself. He gasped and choked, trying to stifle his sobs with a hand over his mouth. 

 

John shouted frantically into the phone “Sherlock! Are you OK? _SHERLOCK! WHAT IS GOING ON_?!”

 

“John,” Sherlock finally gasped disjointedly, “Horrible nightmare – you were shot  
_(gasping sob)_  
b-bleeding out…in Dublin  
_(muffled sob)_  
Awful – just horrible. Blood everywhere  
_(strangled groan)_  
blood on my hands  
_(loud gulp)_  
your eyes … c-c-cold and dead (sniffle)  
You were…cold…p-p-pale.” Sherlock trailed off weekly, “Had to make sure it was just a dream.”

 

“Shhhh, Sherlock,” John soothed him gently, “I’m so sorry.  
_(sorry I’m not there with you)_  
Sounds so terrifying.  
_(I would hold your hand to make it better)_  
I’m okay. I’m fine.  
_(I love you)_  
I turned in early. Seems Dublin is a pretty boring place.” 

 

Sherlock tried to laugh but it game out as a strangled gasp. “I’m all right now, John,” he whispered. “Got a bit of a mess to clean up, but I’ll be fine now that I know you’re safe.”

 

“Mess?” John asked, voice showing his concern. 

 

“Yeah,” Sherlock replied, his face flushing, “Seems that it is actually possible to vomit from fear.”

 

“Oh, Sherlock,” John’s voice was heavy with sympathy. “I’m so sorry. Wish I was there to hold your head, wipe your face.” 

 

Sherlock managed a shaky laugh. “Know what John?” he said earnestly, “I know you would - and I love you for it. I've been trying _not_ to love you since the day I met you, but I do. You can do with that whatever you wish. I’ll continue to love you as my friend - or you can make it more. I realized tonight that I - I don’t want to hide it any more. I want you to know I love you.” 

 

John replied without hesitation, “I love you to. I’ll be home tomorrow. We can talk about what to make of it then. Please go to bed. I want you well rested for our discussion.”

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry this is kind of gross. But it really _does_ happen.


End file.
